B&b In Moscow

Three-day Stay Is A Lesson In Economic Realities

July 11, 1993|By Carol Barrington, Special to the Tribune.

The beginning of our three day bed-and-breakfast adventure last August in Moscow was not auspicious. "Oh-there are two of you! I was only expecting one person, and I only have a one small bed," said our hostess Julia Ribakova as she scooped us out of Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport and into a waiting car.

My husband and I handed her our pre-paid bed and breakfast vouchers from ITS Tours & Travel that clearly stated "two persons."

"Well, you won't be comfortable with me, so I'll see what I can do."

Several telephone calls later, Ribakova delivered us to the dirty front entry of a towering apartment building, one of dozens in a huge housing project on the southwestern outskirts of Moscow. The area had all the charm of the south Bronx.

Ragged with jet lag and culture shock, we were about to cut our losses via a hotel when out through the building's doors rushed our host family, arms and smiles wide. With only 30 minutes' notice, Yuri and Svetlana Kozitskyi opened their lives and home to two strangers from America, their first guests for B&B.

But it was a squeeze for four adults, two teenage daughters and one rambunctious Airedale to fit into their standard-issue Russian apartment.

The largish entry area did double duty as a hall to the sitting room, two bedrooms, one tiny bathroom and a box of a kitchen-no more than 1,000 square feet in all.

In sharp contrast to the building's shabby exterior and smelly halls, their apartment was clean and well-furnished. "The building belongs to the state; it's up to them to fix it," Yuri said later, shrugging. Then he added proudly: "But this apartment is ours."

Making room

They gave us the book-lined master bedroom, which had two twin beds pushed together to form a king; Yuri and Svetlana moved to the fold-out sofa in the sitting room. Then out came a bottle of Russian champagne, and the real welcome began. He spoke only marginal English and she spoke only Russian, but sincere bonhomie on both sides worked out the glitches in communication.

The next morning started with "How do you want your eggs?" and over the next three days, they couldn't do enough for us. Yuri even took a day off from his work as director of a viral biology agricultural research facility so that he and Svetlana could guide us via subway to their favorite places in Moscow.

En route to 16th Century sites we toured handsome subway stations-complete with marble, baroque frescoes and chandeliers-built in the 1930s. Today's economic realities hit home when we left the subway to roam Moscow's best-known open market, Arbat Street.

The station exit was blocked by a crowd selling animals of every shape and description-"They can't afford to feed them anymore," Svetlana quietly explained. My husband and I were buying the food for that night's farewell dinner, and Svetlana had been looking forward all day to grocery shopping at the Arbat Irish House.

In this well-stocked Western-style market, everything is priced in hard currency. When I suggested a package of four nice pork chops at $4.50, Svetlana was horrified. "Oh no, too expensive. For you this is a market; for me it's a museum."

She was unfamiliar with yogurt-"What's that?"-so it went in the basket at my insistence, along with two cartons of orange juice at $1.45 each.

"Ketchup?" Uri quietly asked Svetlana when they thought I am out of earshot. "No, we don't need that; it's too expensive," she whispered. As they moved on, I put a huge $2.45 bottle of ketchup in the cart, along with some personal items as well as French brie and wine, all at near-U.S. prices.

The grand total

At checkout the $31.23 tab scandalized Svetlana. Converted at 150 rubles to $1, that's more than a month's pay, but she acknowledged that nothing we bought is available at the rubles market next door.

That's our next stop, and it's an eye-opener: separate counters, each with a long line, for everything; few fresh fruits and vegetables; rotting fish and poultry; flies picnicking on unwrapped breads, cookies and cheese; a butcher shop slicing a bony beef carcass into straight, square chunks on a bandsaw; and people waiting three-deep to buy whatever the attendant pulls out of the case at 76 roubles per kilo (23 cents per pound).

Supper that evening was bittersweet. We had become friends, but despite being similar in age and education, the financial future for me and my husband was reasonably secure while theirs was scary. Like millions of other Russian families, they are trapped between stagnant salaries and skyrocketing costs. Even subway tokens-1 kopek in 1991, 55 kopeks in June, 1992, 100 kopeks (one rouble) the following month-are becoming a budget item.

Would our hosts, both former communists, go back to the old system? "No, it was totally broken-nothing worked." But neither were they sure that Russia's embrace of capitalism would bring better times: "Still nothing works."